


The Interrogation of Anthony Crowley, Witch

by mevima, StellaCartography



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical - Witch Trials, Ineffable Fuckbuddies (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Past Torture, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaCartography/pseuds/StellaCartography
Summary: At the tail end of the country's obsession with witch trials, Aziraphale runs into Crowley, who has been accused of witchcraft. Crowley is less than impressed by the humans' interrogation methods, and immediately puts the experience behind him in favour of putting somethinginhim.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 164





	The Interrogation of Anthony Crowley, Witch

Crowley sputtered as another bucket of filthy creek water was thrown in her face. She yanked at the simple rope tying her hands behind her back, and snarled up at the annoying human standing just outside the circle of crudely etched markings.

"I'm not  _ bloody well _ a witch, you daft pile of rotting bollocks!" The fine dress Crowley had been wearing was a mess - torn down the side, filthy and soaked - and she was  _ seething _ at the indignity of being captured by a bunch of idiot humans. They'd gotten lucky when they caught her off-guard with a blow to the head, and they'd gotten  _ unbelievably _ lucky when the sigils they'd chosen, designed to trap witches, had proven perfect for trapping an unsuspecting demon instead. Crowley had already determined to burn the knowledge out of their damned minds once she got free.

_ Free _ was going to be a problem, though. So far all of her efforts, physical and occult, had been in vain, and had left her with nothing but a mild headache and several reddened scrapes.

The man turned to pick up a heated poker from the coals nearby, and Crowley eyed his movements warily. There was a limit to what they had been able to do from outside the circle, but humans were remarkably innovative when it came to causing suffering.

When he came toward her with the weapon raised, Crowley curled in on herself protectively, with a hiss that did nothing to convince them of her protests.

"Confess, witch!" the man bellowed, and thrust the hot metal forward.

Crowley had no desire to give them the satisfaction of a scream. After all, the human concept of torture had nothing on the denizens of Hell. She grit her teeth, staring the human full in the face as the poker hit her shoulder hard, searing another hole in her poor dress. Glasses long gone, her inhuman yellow eyes flared in anger, and she forced the groan of pain to become an angry snarl.

None of which was going to convince them that she wasn't a witch, but she figured they were well past that point anyway.

Several long minutes later, when the man finally spat in disgust and left her to "think about confessing her sins," Crowley spent some time screaming and kicking at the wards. Just like every other attempt, it did nothing, her feet only slamming into an invisible wall, but at least it served to make her feel marginally better.

They'd make a mistake at some point, and these weak-willed creatures couldn't do her too much harm in the meantime… but the dungeon was filthy, and cold, and Crowley hunched down for warmth, glaring at the walls and waiting for her chance.

* * *

The sun peeked through the clouds, casting a gentle light on Aziraphale as he walked through the town, his soft hands twisting and fussing under the cassock he wore. He rapped on the doorway of the rectory and entered without waiting.

"Ah! Friar Fell. Welcome, brother." A ruddy-cheeked priest bustled forward to meet him, taking his hand in greeting. "Come in. Let us break bread and discuss our business."

"Thank you, Father." Aziraphale was sure the meeting would go quickly. The papal decree was nothing if not clear: no heretics were to be tortured, no witches were to be burned, all sadistic practises performed in the name of defending the faith were to end. And on the surface, as they supped on dense, rough loaves of hot bread, the discussion was going rather well.

"Theologically speaking, the Almighty does not need us to defend the faith," Aziraphale said, fully aware he was treading a dangerous line between logic and the current dogma. "God is all-powerful and has given humankind free will, and it is not our place as clergy to become warriors. We are shepherds, not soldiers."

"Of course, Friar Fell," the priest said, all smiles. "You can leave it in my hands. I will see to it that all that nastiness is put to an end."

"Thank you, Father. I knew I could count on you." Aziraphale returned the smile and rose to leave, but paused in the doorway. "You don't happen to have any heretics held captive now, do you? They should certainly be released at once and given a warm meal."

"Oh, no. No, I'm quite sure there hasn't been any of that business for some time, brother." The priest clapped Aziraphale's shoulder too hard, sending him off-balance, but his words had an echo of wrongness behind them. "You needn't worry yourself further. Thank you for your time. God bless."

_ That stupid man _ , Aziraphale thought as he bustled out of the rectory.  _ As if I can't tell he's lying. _ He kept up his pleasant, mild-mannered expression until he could move away from the main street and into an alleyway, far from any maddening humans. With a sigh, he stretched his wings out wide, extending his angelic senses with a shiver of feathers. Good Lord, his wings were in such a state. It was a good thing there were no other angels in the vicinity to - 

Something odd prickled at his ethereal senses, and Aziraphale took a deep breath to orient himself. It was nearby, not-human but not-angelic, and neatly aligned with what he knew about where this particular town kept their prisoners.

Well. He would simply have to proceed with caution.

* * *

When the door creaked open, Crowley had already exhausted herself with futile attempts at miracles and violent attempts to break the barrier. The only evidence of the rope that had been around her wrists was a few rough red marks; the rope itself had been torn apart and hurled across the room in a fit of rage. Cranky, in pain, and absolutely  _ done, _ Crowley spun to face the backlit figure in the doorway and snarled, "What _ now?" _

"Hello?" Aziraphale stepped forward cautiously, holding aloft a lantern to see ahead into the darkened space. His eyes fell immediately on the implements of torture which hung on the walls and lay scattered over the surfaces of every table and bench in his field of vision. "Are you all right? I’m here to free you."

Finally, the angel spotted the ragged, strangely familiar figure of a young woman with blood-red hair. He moved closer, lifting the lantern, and blinked at the sight of yellow irises and slitted pupils.

"Crowley!"

Squinting suspiciously past the lantern's glare, Crowley recoiled as she recognised those unmistakable blond curls. Instead of relief, shame flooded through her - shame at being caught so easily, at Aziraphale seeing her like this. She took a step back, ineffectually trying to fix her dress.

"Ah… angel!" Crowley tried to force a jovial tone, but she was so damned  _ tired. _ "So glad you could join me. Get sick of watching mediocre plays?"

When Aziraphale moved to approach, Crowley threw her arms up in alarm, though the motion pulled on still-fresh burns. "Don't step in the circle!"

"Oh!" Aziraphale glanced down in surprise, and his eyes widened in recognition at the sigils etched into the floor. "Oh, my dear, who could have done such a thing? Are they here? Were you summoned?" When Crowley's face only twisted in annoyance, Aziraphale reprimanded himself.  _ Stupid angel. No sense flooding the poor girl with questions while standing here gobsmacked. _

Circling Crowley’s demonic cage, Aziraphale searched for a way to remove the etching, quickly locating a rasp on the nearby bench. Trying not to think about how the tool had been used in the past, he knelt beside Crowley and began to scrape at the markings in the dirt. They resisted his efforts surprisingly well, and he had to imbue the rasp with a dose of heavenly power before applying a good deal more angelic elbow grease.

With a sigh, Crowley sat on the dingy floor, merely watching him work for a moment and trying to ignore her own filthy appearance. "They think I'm a witch," she spat bitterly, when the scrape of the rasp had irritated her long enough. She gestured sharply around the room. " _ This _ is how they treat any woman who knows a little medicine. A collection of herbs in your window or a miraculous survival through childbirth and suddenly you're a 'Bride of Satan.'" She snorted. "As if that asshole would ever marry."

Studying the sigils for the hundredth time, Crowley tilted her head, loose red curls falling over her shoulder. "Dunno if this circle would stop you, but better not try. I really think the idiots just got lucky with the right runes."

"Not to worry. I shall break the charm from here, dear girl." Aziraphale scraped more aggressively at the floor. "They told me this had stopped. That they had no more prisoners. When I free you, you should curse them, Crowley. Make it so they never see the sun again. Bring them misery. Castrate them."

The last came out in a snarl, and Crowley blinked slowly at the angel's vitriol. "You've… seen a lot of this lately, I take it." She adjusted her dress self-consciously, pulling it back up as well as she could. "I'm fine, you know," she offered, an attempt to soothe. It wasn't even a lie. "Pity the demon who can't handle a little torture."

"It’s the principle of the thing, Crowley!" Aziraphale’s power surged and the rasp glowed with it, burning more easily through the etchings it touched, until suddenly the air seemed to shimmer between them, an already-fading impression of shattering glass. "Ah!" Aziraphale cried, and reached encouragingly for Crowley's hand. "Try again, my dear."

Since the barrier had proven itself a simple wall, not painful to touch, Crowley didn't hesitate. There was a tingle as her arm passed over the destroyed runes, but nothing more, and her face split in a triumphant grin, bypassing the angel's assistance and scrambling forward on hands and knees to escape the circle as if it could rebuild itself.

Occult energy flooded back into the demon's body, and she groaned, flexing her fingers in relief; being free of the trap was nothing compared to the freedom of having her abilities back. The dress repaired itself with a thought - dry, clean, and whole, wrapping around her shoulders and cinching tight around her waist again - and Crowley grinned at Aziraphale, all teeth. " _ Much _ better."

The hair around Crowley’s face was curling from the damp, and now that they were closer, Aziraphale could see droplets of filthy water on her nose. Taking a linen cloth from the folds of his cassock, he gently patted Crowley’s face and hair, following the linen with a brush of his thumb over the demon’s cheek. With a smile for Crowley’s benefit, the angel murmured, “Better still.” 

Aziraphale turned away, staring at the implements on the table, some of them blood-covered, all of them wicked, and the thought of the use they had been put to in recent years filled him with a sudden fury. Pursing his lips angrily, he picked up a thumbscrew and hurled it at the stone wall. It bounced, clattering to the floor. Aziraphale seethed.

"Angel." Crowley climbed to her feet, calming hands outstretched. "It's okay. It's over. It's just… humans being humans. Going a bit too far. You know how they can be." She laid her hands on his shoulders and rubbed gently, ignoring the twinges of pain her body was still giving out - time enough to fix that later. "Don't worry about the nasty side of things. That's my job."

Crowley’s hands were working a very human kind of magic on Aziraphale’s nerves. He sighed and leaned into the touch, then reached up to cover her hand, eyes still focused on the horrid tools.

"Did they hurt you?" Just louder than a whisper, Aziraphale’s voice wavered in the cold, dark room. The lantern was dimming, casting odd shadows from its position on the bench. Aziraphale turned to face the demon. "Crowley. Please. You may not want to tell me, but I must know."

She shrugged lightly, honestly unconcerned now that Aziraphale had gotten her out. "I was in here for three days. Of course they did. 'S not a big deal."

Aziraphale scanned her face, his eyes pained. Worried. He ran his hands through the air barely an inch from her skin, hesitant to touch without permission. "I won’t try to heal you, but if it hurts I can try to help with the pain." He wished he could do more, undo what they’d done, punish them all for the atrocities he’d witnessed in the past few years - but mostly for what they had done to Crowley.

As a gesture of apology, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his thumb, and his thumb to Crowley’s collarbone. "Not really the time or place to be a woman, is it?"

Crowley smiled gratefully, bringing a hand up to touch Aziraphale's cheek, then glanced down at her still-female form with a thoughtful frown. "I actually forgot. Couldn't change my shape in that stupid circle." She shuddered; the humans had threatened much worse than they'd actually done, but the memories of their words - and the thought of what they may have done to any other poor "witches" - left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Yeah, done with this," she muttered, and snapped her fingers abruptly; in an instant, her body was male again, though he saw no reason to change the dress. He gave Aziraphale a wry grin and a wink. "Hope you don't mind. I can keep the bits, if that's what you're after."

"Demon's choice," Aziraphale murmured, suddenly close enough to breathe it into Crowley's ear. He kissed Crowley's temple and inhaled the demon's scent, taking it deep into his lungs and letting it serve as a balm to his soul.

Their verbal sparring had developed into physical tussles over time, and like many of their other conflicts, taunts had turned to teasing, wounds had turned to worries, and they had found themselves mostly on the same side at the end of it all. Aziraphale could hardly recall a time any more when he had been afraid to touch Crowley as he was doing now. Some time after Mesopotamia, they had given up the pretense that their wrestling matches were anything other than an excuse to touch each other.

Now, in this dungeon of horrors, Aziraphale could no longer resist the urge to capture Crowley with his aching hands. He clasped the demon's upper arms and squeezed gently.

Not expecting the sudden pressure, Crowley jerked back with a hiss of pain. Simple gender switching hadn't affected his remaining wounds, and although his supernatural healing speed had returned now that he was free of the demon trap, it had hardly been enough time for the welts and burns to disappear. But, as worrying Aziraphale further was the very last thing Crowley wanted, he pasted an apologetic smile over the grimace and moved in for a kiss.

Aziraphale dropped his hands to Crowley's hips, where it seemed safer, and caught Crowley's mouth with his own. Tender and tentative at first, Aziraphale quickly grew impatient, devouring Crowley's lips with a scrape of teeth and an aggressive thrust of his tongue. He spun them around, pressing Crowley back into the workbench.

Crowley groaned into Aziraphale's mouth. This, here, was unironically perfect, Aziraphale's body against him turning the places he hurt into places that  _ burned, _ and he no longer minded that the angel had seen him in such distress. Being rescued was a worthy sacrifice if his reward was to be one of these dalliances again, especially since Aziraphale seemed to be in a  _ mood. _

Air left him in a rough gasp as Aziraphale moved down to nip sharply at the column of his throat. Crowley clutched at the angel's broad shoulders, cursing the dress that made it difficult to wrap his legs around Aziraphale's hips the way he wanted to. With a hiss of eager anticipation, Crowley tempted, "You know, I've had a nice close look at a lot of these tools… and I can think of some  _ much _ better uses we could put them to..."

Aziraphale was only too happy to shift his attention from his own anger to Crowley's arousal. "Tell me more," he mumbled into Crowley's shoulder, distracted by the feast of skin in front of him, neck and shoulders on display. Aziraphale had never been one to turn down such a delicacy. He licked and sucked at Crowley's neck and urged the rich fabric of the dress up Crowley's thighs until the demon's legs were free to wrap around his hips.

It was easy to shove aside the memories of what the tiny, unimportant humans had done in this place, and Crowley glanced around the dim room with fresh perspective. "The whip is obvious," he murmured into Aziraphale's ear, sliding his hands into those luscious curls to keep the angel in place against his collarbone. "The rope. Plenty of sharp things in here to scrape up my back with. Some of those handles are,  _ oh, _ the perfect size…"

His gaze fell on a short rod, casually discarded in the pile of implements, and Crowley's teeth sharpened into a wicked grin. "Ever heard of sssounding, angel?"

Aziraphale groaned, slotting himself between Crowley's thighs until he could grind them together, hoisting the demon up onto the bench and freeing his hands to run through Crowley's hair. Crowley's enthusiasm was positively infectious, encouraging Aziraphale's more hedonistic tendencies. 

"Sounding? Not in my line of work, no. Would you care to enlighten me, my dear?" Ever greedy for more, Aziraphale stroked Crowley's sides through the tight fabric of his clothing, and Crowley nipped his earlobe for his impatience, huffing a laugh.

_ "Eager," _ Crowley chastised; Aziraphale only smiled. "'S more complicated for humans, but you can just take one of those metal rods over there," his voice slipped lower, tempting, teasing directly into an angelic ear, "smooth it out… lube it up… and slide it inside my prick." Crowley hissed at the thought, squeezing his thighs tight. "Do it right, 's like fucking it from the inside out."

"How very vulnerable that would make you," Aziraphale mused, hands sliding down Crowley's form to clutch at his buttocks. "You'd be entirely at my mercy. Isn't that right?" He squeezed the demon's bottom with both hands, pinching and kneading, drawing an encouraging moan and a fervent nod.

"You'll need to be rather hard, I presume. As rigid as possible. Lie back now, darling." Aziraphale moved away to fetch the slender rod Crowley had indicated, smoothing and cleaning it with the slightest thought.

The way the angel took charge when he had a plan in mind always set Crowley's insides to boiling, ready and willing to see what would be done to him if he only submitted. Licking his lips in anticipation, Crowley yanked the dress over his head, scraping it against his healing wounds deliciously and leaving nothing behind to cover his body. Crowley couldn't say and didn't care if he had originally dressed that way; it suited his needs now. He tossed the heavy lump of fabric aside and sat back, spreading his legs shamelessly.

With a stretch of his aching muscles, Crowley stroked his cock loosely, more show than stimulation, and watched Aziraphale's precise movements with a strange sort of wonderment and pride. "You find a new indulgence and you dive right in. You're such a slut, angel."

"I beg your pardon? This from the demon stripped and erect on the table before me?" Aziraphale himself was hard beneath his simple linen cloth, but the cassock was most forgiving and he felt quite comfortable ignoring it. "We shall see who better embodies that particular epithet momentarily, Crowley."

The demon only chuckled in response, and Aziraphale took his time surveying the planes and pools of Crowley's nude form. Every piece of marred and abused flesh threatened to raise his ire again, his hands passing closely, almost affectionately over the marks. He granted Crowley's body just a little miracle, aiming to ease the swelling and calm the aggrieved nerves before he felt comfortable lighting the demon aflame in his own way.

Crowley's hand fell away from his cock as Aziraphale reached for it, wrapping around it with a firm squeeze. He tilted his head consideringly, finding the hardness wanting for their purposes, then leant down and took it into his mouth without warning. Crowley's head fell back with a shameless moan, bracing himself against the table, and Aziraphale held him steadily by the base as he suckled hard, dragging his tongue up the shaft.

They had discovered this particular delight together millennia ago in Babylon. On a moonlit night, the two of them had watched another couple from a safe distance, just close enough to make out the moans of pleasure in the stillness. Aziraphale had been captivated by the human experience of pleasure, and had frequently been driven to collect and catalogue these little pleasures for himself - usually in Crowley's company.

Aziraphale hummed around Crowley's cock, glancing up past the heaving muscles of the demon's stomach, to his peaked nipples, and the strained lines of his throat where Crowley's head tipped back in pleasure. Finally better satisfied with Crowley's hardness, Aziraphale pulled off with an obscene pop.

"Fuck," Crowley groaned, hips bucking at the loss. Aziraphale chuckled, and pressed his thumb into the slick tip just to hear that lovely sound again.

"Now, talk me through this, Crowley." It was the work of a quick miracle to slick the rod. "I don't want to make any mistakes. I want you to enjoy this." Aziraphale positioned the rod above Crowley's throbbing cock, and waited.

"You're so good with your mouth." Crowley stroked Aziraphale's curls, and took in a deep breath. "Just - just go slow. A little bit of pressure is enough to start, you can let it slide down on its own."

At first, the metal was just unpleasantly cold, rubbing gently against the head of his cock. Then it caught on the slit; Aziraphale moved carefully but the pressure was almost unbearable, just on the good side of pain, and Crowley grit his teeth, hands digging sharply into Aziraphale's shoulders. "Don't let me buck up," he managed, and then Aziraphale's weight was across his thighs and the rod was sliding  _ down, _ an ache and a relief all at once, something foreign and intrusive touching on nerves so often hidden with an intensity that made Crowley's head buzz.

Tiny, fractured noises filled the air as the sound slid slowly, so slowly into him; Crowley could focus on nothing but the strange, overwhelming stretch, making him feel vulnerable and so  _ full. _ He could be damaged so  _ easily  _ like this, one wrong move and it would take a miracle to fix it - but he trusted Aziraphale implicitly, and that very danger and trust sharpened the pleasure in a way Crowley didn't want to examine. Aziraphale always took such good care of him, treating him to anything he asked for, without question, without mercy.

Aeons later, the rod reached a natural stopping point, a resistance inside him, filling his cock completely. Crowley whimpered, hips jerking up helplessly, but Aziraphale was right there, holding him down, keeping him contained, and Crowley let out a short sob, nails sharpening on Aziraphale's shoulders.

Wary of causing movement, Aziraphale murmured a stream of gentle encouragement, one hand on the sound, the other holding Crowley's cock steady. "You're doing so well. How you trust me with this, with you, taking everything I give you. Look at you, you gorgeous creature. Clever demon." Crowley's grip on his shoulders was a perfect distraction from his own arousal; just enough pain to keep him present and grounded. Keep him from grinding into the bench and upsetting their perfect tableau.

Crowley was a study in ecstasy, the way he clung, mouth agape, chest heaving as he resisted the urge to move. Aziraphale stared at Crowley's cock as it gave a little twitch, and his mouth watered. Carefully, so carefully, he assisted Crowley in lying back on the bench, and dropped a tender kiss to the head of his cock, just to the side of the sound. 

"Can you stay still if I ease off?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley arched a little, but nodded. 

Keeping one arm on Crowley's hips, Aziraphale pulled the sound up in a slow, precise motion. Crowley's breath caught in his throat, the intense drag against sensitized nerves freezing him in place. Then Aziraphale let the innocuous little rod slide back inside, and Crowley choked on a howl.

The precise delicacy of the penetration captivated Aziraphale's attention, a fascinating parallel to the way Crowley panted and writhed and made the most delicious noises from the slightest of his motions. Aziraphale found his focus narrowing to the calming, slow rhythm as his scribe's fingers found a new area of expertise to a background litany of pleasure.

Steady and unrelenting, Aziraphale fucked Crowley's cock with the sound until the demon felt as if he would shake apart in Aziraphale's very capable hands. Crowley was blinded with an ecstasy he couldn't react properly to, nails raking up long curls of wood from the rough table, forcing himself to keep unbearably still under the punishing sensations battering at his corporation. He was going to drown in it, he was going to lose himself, he was nothing but a vessel for every shock of pleasure going straight from Aziraphale's blunt, beautiful fingertips to the core of him, oh  _ God  _ -

He was going to  _ come. _

Crowley stretched an urgent hand in Aziraphale's direction, fingers clutching at the air in an aborted motion as he babbled,  _ "Enough,  _ enough, out, I can't - gonna come like this - can't come with it in oh  _ fuck Aziraphale please  _ \- !"

"Crowley,  _ look at me." _ Aziraphale's voice was full of a command that Crowley couldn't help but obey. "You'll come when I say you can. Not before." Holding Crowley's wide-eyed gaze, he pulled the sound up one last time, terribly, torturously slow. "You are going to hold back until I can get my mouth on you. You are a delicacy, my dear, and I know you won't deny me."

Crowley made a desperately soft noise that Aziraphale took as agreement. The sound was nearly out, just the barest bit of metal still penetrating Crowley's cock, but even as he trembled and whimpered, Crowley was unthinkingly obedient to his angel's command. He would Rise again if Aziraphale ordered it in that tone of voice.

Mouth watering in anticipation, Aziraphale adjusted his position, then removed the rod and took Crowley deep into his mouth in one smooth motion.

Crowley's hips lifted off the wood in a voiceless plea as the tip of the metal skimmed the sensitive head of his cock - and Aziraphale met his rise eagerly, a tight, perfect haven for his abused prick. With a choked cry, Crowley found himself coming  _ hard; _ it ripped through him strange and bright and  _ intense _ in the wake of the sound, and his body snapped into a sharp arch, pulsing his bliss helplessly onto Aziraphale's waiting tongue.

The edge of the table cracked under Crowley's hand, and neither of them noticed.

Aziraphale paid no heed to his own aching cock as he swallowed Crowley's spend, though the loud, shameless noises reaching his ears made him throb sharply in his breeches. When Crowley finally subsided, tense muscles going suddenly lax, Aziraphale surged up to capture his face in eager hands, kissing him messily.

Crowley's tongue was a sweet amuse-bouche with which Aziraphale chased down the musky taste of come, claiming his mouth with a fervour reserved for these meetings. Arms twining about Aziraphale's neck, Crowley groaned into his mouth, letting the angel pull him until he perched on the edge of the workbench, his slight weight supported by that strong body. Aziraphale revelled in the freedom of touch now that he could allow Crowley to move, and he stroked and pet Crowley's freckled skin, running fingers through flame-bright hair.

Though their activities were certainly not something Heaven would sanction, Aziraphale felt cleansed, as though they had somehow exorcised the room of the demons of human malice.

Every part of Crowley's body ached in a satisfied, wonderful way, and he moaned eagerly, working a hand between them to seek out the angel's cock, which  _ must _ be in terrible need by now. "How do you want me?" he murmured, nipping at Aziraphale's lips - but Aziraphale twisted his hips out of reach with a shake of his head.

Even as Crowley pouted, Aziraphale wrapped strong hands around his waist and gently helped him down from the workbench. "I want you in a bed two towns over, my dear," he explained, which went far in soothing the demon's ruffled ego.

Glancing around the room, Aziraphale's lips thinned. "Unless you have any outstanding business, I'd very much like to move on to never seeing this place again."

Crowley cocked his head consideringly, following Aziraphale's gaze. "Mmm... there are  _ definitely _ things in here I want to use later." He snatched up an empty bucket, and the angel watched with amusement as his thoroughly naked companion examined, discarded, and collected instruments of torture for later repurposing.

When he was finally satisfied, Crowley deposited the bucket in Aziraphale's patiently waiting arms, then turned to glare at the destroyed demon trap, hands on his hips. "Let's burn it down," he hissed fervently.

At Aziraphale's pointed cough, Crowley turned to see his amused expression. "Clothing, my dear?"

Crowley blinked, then burst out laughing. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He beckoned and his discarded dress, once again clean and presentable, appeared on his body. "Still a little floaty from what you did to me."

"Yes, well." Aziraphale offered a smug smile and a chivalrous arm. "We'll have to revisit that little indulgence later, won't we?"

Crowley groaned low in his throat. "Slut," he accused proudly.

"Heathen," Aziraphale responded without malice.

The building formerly used for interrogation flared up behind them, and didn't stop burning until all that remained of it was ash and memory.


End file.
